In fact, it was the last time I'd seen Ashe. He'd had a shaven head and was covered in tattoos and studs. And he'd just arrested my mum.
Needless to say, we weren't on best terms.
'But you said,' I gasped and did some more deep breathing, focussing on the rather sickly, dust-covered spider plant on top of Danny's filing cabinet and trying not to think of being locked in a car with my least favourite person.
'But you said,' I tried again and was interrupted.
'You're kidding me,' rasped someone from behind. 'We're not employing her!'
That granite-grit voice I'd have recognised anywhere.
'We are. She's the best,' said Danny loyally.
'She's a fruit-loop.'
At this I swung around, knife still in hand. With a flick of my wrist I sent it spinning through the air where it embedded in the doorjamb, only a smidge away from Ashe's left ear.
'Brilliant aim,' said Danny, as a nervous tic attacked his eyelid.
'What do you mean? I missed!' I stared boldly, challengingly at Ashe, and he glared back.
He'd changed a lot since I'd last seen him. He was still all bulging muscles and testosterone, but his hair had grown back black, thick and lush, curling to his shoulders in waves that would have made a lesser woman weep. There wasn't a hint of blue tattoo ink or metal piercings, which pricked my finicky interest.
How had he got rid of them? He was wearing a tight black T-shirt and snug black jeans.
'If you do any of that shit while you're with me you're out on your fanny,' he said and then spun on the heel of his scuffed leather boots and left the room.
'That went well,' said Danny, mopping sweat from his brow. 'Don't try and get a rise out of him, Morgan. He's not your greatest fan.'
'Feeling's mutual,' I said, retrieving my knife. 'I reckon you've made a tactical error employing me, Danny boy.'
Ashe returned minutes later in a chauffeur's uniform with his hair tied back in a ponytail, accentuating his Keanu Reeves high cheekbones and broken beak. A peak cap shaded those all too knowing eyes that were the colour of a Perth summer sky but without the warmth.
'Let's go,' he barked. I saluted and goose-stepped towards the black Mercedes with its bullet-proof glass and reinforced steel. He snagged my arm.
'Watch it,' he said close to my ear and nearly precipitated a panic attack then and there. 'You might be Danny's friend but you're no mate of mine.'
'Holy Mackerel, Robin!' I pronounced with juvenile bravado. 'Time for the Bat Mobile or we'll be late for class.'
But my front was brittle. I was a stiletto-blade away from losing it. I didn't want to be reduced to a snivelling wreck with Ashe looking on. There was enough bad blood between us without making his fruit-loop comment take wings. Luckily, I managed to stave it off until we had the kid in the car.
The kid, Sabrina Camberlini, was precocious. She was seven going on forty and knew absolutely everything, which was kind of irritating for someone almost thirty who had regressed to watching daytime cartoons and Play School. She had dark curls, Bambi eyes and was as cute as a cobra.
As we drove to the school I began to feel the telltale signs of my chest tightening and black spots dancing on my eyeballs. I clutched my hands together and tried to control the sudden breathlessness.
The kid flicked me a glance and then concentrated on her computer game. 'Breathe,' she said flatly. Ashe immediately cut his eyes to the rear-view mirror. Irritated concern flashed in those icy depths.
I flapped my hand in a 'don't worry about it' sort of gesture.
'Breathe,' said Sabrina again. 'It's just a panic attack.'
I did and the symptoms subsided.
'How d'ya know so much, kid?' I said once I was back in control.
'My gran gets them all the time.'
Ashe mouthed 'women' in the mirror and shook his head in disgust.
For the next two weeks we babysat Sabrina without incident. Most days it was Danny driving the car, which suited me fine. We joked and chatted and it felt like old times. Times before the maggots and death-stench had got to me.
When Ashe was at the wheel there was deadly silence.
'Why don't you like Ashe?' Miss Smarty-Pants Sabrina asked one day while we were ticking over at a red light.
'Who said I don't?'
The iceman himself was watching me in the rear-view mirror, those baby blues razor sharp and dry-ice freezing.
'You don't talk and laugh with him like you do with Pickles.'
'Mr Pickles is an old friend. Mr Ashe isn't. It's as simple as that.'
'So you hate Ashe?'
'No, love him,' I lied and flicked back to the mirror. Blue eyes were smoking. What was bugging him now?
Ashe took the car through the big wrought iron gates of the select private school and parked.
'Well, I think Ashe is gorgeous,' said Sabrina.
'There's no accounting for taste,' I said dismissively. 'Now have you got all your gear? Let's go.' I took the kid through the security checkpoint and into the school. We were met by her teacher who was flustered and flushed, but that could have been because Ashe was with us. He had that effect on women.
Correction; most women. Some of us were more discerning.
'Bit of a crisis, I'm afraid, do you think you could possibly help out, Ms Lewis?'
'Doing what?' I was immediately on red alert and supremely conscious of the gun in my shoulder holster.
'Could you possibly take assembly?'
'Me? Hey, lady, I'm a bodyguard not a teacher.'
'It would so help me out…'
'No!'
'The motto of the school is that we all pull together,' she said, sternness replacing the breathless sugar of her voice. 'We've got staff off sick and I'm really stretched. You only have to supervise them for five minutes or so while I track down some relief teachers.'
'I can't.'
'Course she can,' said Ashe. 'She's a natural with kids.'
'Thanks,' I said and vowed to get even with Ashe. Perhaps it was time he had his nose broken again.
'You're a star,' said the teacher.
'But I don't know what to do,' I protested.
'You've been sitting in on assemblies these past few weeks. You know the score,' said Ashe helpfully. Or was that unhelpfully?
'That's right,' said the teacher. The sugar was back. She beamed at Ashe and flushed a deeper shade of puce.
So while they were bonding, I ended up in front of a hundred and fifty kids singing 'If I were a butterfly'. I was totally fazed. Give me a riot any day. The kids wouldn't sit down quietly and sing. Oh no. They wriggled and shouted and rolled on the floor.
I could feel an anxiety attack coming on. My heart began to race and my breathing became shallow. There was only one thing for it. I pulled out my gun and fired into the ceiling.
There was a loud crack followed by dead silence.
Not one kid wriggled, wiggled or giggled.
A piece of plasterboard fell from the ceiling and Sabrina said: 'Wow, Morgan. That was awesome.'
There was a pounding of feet.
'What the hell?' said Ashe racing into the assembly hall, gun in hand. He was followed by the school's security guards and staff.
'I was just getting their attention,' I said sweetly. 'No need to panic.'
'Morgan!'
'Now kids,' I said, ignoring Ashe's spluttering and the ineffectual mouthing of the teachers. 'As I've got your attention, this is what we're going to do…'
I put on some music and began to hand jive. The kids began to bop on the spot and copy my movements. Great. But then the minutes stretched to five, ten, fifteen and still no teacher relieved me. I was running out of jiving moves and the kids were getting restless. How could I beef it up and maintain their interest without shooting any more of the ceiling?
So I moved into the one thing I knew a lot about: self-defence. I began doing blocks and thrusts and high kicks. At the end of half an hour, the children had the basics an
d I was replaced by a po-faced teacher.
'What the hell were you doing in there?' said Ashe, forcibly marching me out of the hall. 'Those kids'll be lethal.'
'It won't hurt them to have a little self-defence knowledge. Not with the lifestyles they lead. If anyone comes on strong they'll know where to hit, and how.'
'You're a nutter,' he said. 'I had to do a lot of explaining back there. And we'll get the bill for the ceiling. It'll come out of your pay.'
'But that was your fault.'
'I didn't pull the trigger,' he said, towering over me and scowling.
'No, but you volunteered me for assembly duty.'
And then, for no reason at all except that he was too close, another stress attack hit. I gritted my teeth and fought it.
'Breathe,' Ashe commanded.
I tried. Didn't work. Lots of black spots merging into one big one that threatened to engulf me.
'Hell,' he said and dragged me close, kissing me hard. Ashe's personal version of CPR. Dammit, and it worked. I got my breath back, but I was so incensed by his methods that I judo threw him over my shoulder and he landed heavily on the ground.
'A simple thank you would have been enough,' he wheezed as I stalked off.
'The Camberlinis have had another threatening letter,' said Danny a few days later. We were having a snack in the office and I was fishing out anything that resembled an insect or larva from my salad roll.
'You are so picky,' complained Ashe eating one of the olives I'd rejected.
He opened up his tinfoil takeaway carton and there sat spareribs in barbeque sauce. I gagged and probably changed colour because Danny was suddenly thrusting my head between my knees and telling me to breath deeply.
'Don't like ribs, eh?' grinned Ashe after I'd fought Danny off and sat upright again.
'Ribs,' I said succinctly. 'Human skeletons. Seen too many rotting ones. Can't be helped.'
Ashe stared at me and then at the dripping rib in his fingers. His smile slipped. He threw the rib back in the carton. 'Thanks,' he said and chucked the carton in the bin.
'So this note,' I said, focussing on something more positive than death and decay. 'What does it say?'
'That the kid will be snatched unless the Camberlinis back off.'
'Back off from what?'
'Seems there's a turf war on.'
'Great. And will the Camberlinis back off?'
'Nope.'
'Excellent. So we up the protection?'
'That's what we're paid for.'
We picked up the kid as usual and she was in her motor-mouth mood.
'Shut up, kid. You're bothering me,' I said, wanting to concentrate on the job not the girl.
'Don't talk to me like that,' she retorted and got out her Gameboy. 'Or I'll have you sacked.'
'You don't pay me. Your dad does.'
'Actually, my mum. She's the one with the money. Dad just orders the knee-cappings.'
Was she trying to be cute? Pulling my (non-knee-capped) leg for kicks? Because it wasn't funny. I'd done some digging on the Camberlinis. Mrs C was so fearsome she was known as the Black Mariah and hubby had a reputation as a short fuse hit-man. Nice parents. No wonder her old granny suffered panic attacks.
At school, the kids were milling around in the playground behind the huge protective walls. I stayed closer than usual to Sabrina, wondering when and how the hit would come; not if.
Her teacher avoided me and I wasn't asked to do assembly. Strange that. But my kudos among the children was high.
'Hey, Morgan, can you show us some more moves?' said one of the boys. Soon I had a crowd going through a kick-and-thrust routine.
'What the hell are you doing,' hissed Ashe marching up to me and blocking a kick. He held my leg high in his hand. As I was wearing a dress he was getting a good perv of my thighs where I had my gun and knife strapped.
'They wanted to practice some techniques.' I tugged to release my leg.
'You'll get us sacked.'
'Tell someone who cares!' He let go and I smoothed back down the red material. I'd rejected wearing the protective vest and armoury since that first day, going for the more casual appearance so as not to faze the kids and to survive the summer heat. But my skimpy dress wasn't doing much to keep me cool now. Ashe had the irritating knack of upping my temperature.
The bell rang and we went inside to do art and craft. Sabrina got me to help her with some cutting and sticking while Ashe patrolled outside the classroom.
'You're not much good at this,' she said as I botched a vital bit of the model.
'I don't have to be, kid. I can shoot. In my book, a Smith and Wesson beats a glue gun any day.'
She cocked her head on one side. 'True,' she said. 'Can't wait till I get my own gun.'
Heaven forbid. Give the kid a Barbie.
The car got hit that afternoon on our way home. It happened fast. A black jeep came out of nowhere and broad-sided the Mercedes.
Ashe said an extremely rude word.
'I'm going to tell Mum you said that,' said Sabrina.
'That's the least of my problems,' said Ashe and reached for his gun.
The door was wrenched by open by men in ski masks. Ashe fired and hit one. There was a muffled thwock, thwock and suddenly Ashe pitched forward on to the wheel. A hole smoked in his jacket. I didn't see where the other bullet went.
There wasn't time for me to reach between my legs for my own gun because the men were pulling me out and Sabrina was shrilly screaming and trying to clutch me.
They threw Ashe on the road. He didn't move. Two burly men got in either side of Sabrina and she abruptly stopped screaming, her little face contorted in fear. Or fury. I wasn't sure which, but being a Camberlini, it was probably the latter.
'Shove nanny behind the wheel,' snapped a guttural voice and I was rammed roughly into the seat still warm from Ashe's backside.
I crunched the gears and swore. 'Women drivers,' said the voice and jabbed the barrel of his gun under my jawbone. 'Drive and no funny business, darl.'
I didn't panic then. The shortness of breath and black stars didn't hit me until we reached the feeder lane of the freeway. Then I began to sweat and shake like a menopausal blancmange.
'Get on with it,' yelled the man as motorists beeped and hooted their horns behind us.
'Breathe,' said Sabrina, her little voice slightly wobbly but nonetheless calm. 'Breathe slowly and deeply, Morgan.'
'Shut up, kid,' said the main man.
But Sabrina's calm sensibility acted like a douche and I was suddenly in control and in cop mode. I jammed my foot on the accelerator and the Mercedes sprang into roaring life. We zoomed from zero to hundred and ninety, cut back and forth across the five lanes, flinging the occupants of the car first to one side and then the other.
'Awesome,' said Sabrina.
'Slow down!' yelled the man with the gun.
'No!' I shouted back.
'I'll shoot.'
'Then we'll all die.'
'I'll pop the kid.'
'And then you've lost your bargaining power.'
There was a squeal in the back. 'Don't hurt me,' cried Sabrina. 'Morgan, they're twisting my arm.'
'Leave her alone,' I said, easing my foot off the accelerator.
'Then behave, Nanny.'
There was a tracking device on the Mercedes so I was confident we'd soon be found. But then we swapped cars and my confidence evaporated. We drove south and out of the city. We turned down an earth track and bumped along it until we came to an old beach house with asbestos walls and peeling blue paint. It was surrounded by scrub. Once there'd been a garden but now only straggly red geraniums grew by the door.
The kidnappers pushed us up the splintered steps and into the hotbox house. It reeked of rat and possum poo.
'This is disgusting,' said Sabrina.
'Shut up, kid.'
'I wish people would stop telling me to shut up,' she said huffily.
They tied us to ancient steel kitch
en chairs with our hands behind our backs and our legs strapped to the chair legs. Silver duct tape was smacked across our mouths. We sat there for what seemed like hours, the sweat pouring off us as the late summer sun beat on the tin roof, making us baste like rotisserie chickens in an Italian deli.
The windows and doors were shut. The temperature was stifling. Sabrina maintained a defiant pose, but she slumped as the afternoon slid into sticky evening. There was no breeze to bring relief. Mosquitoes whined and greedily sucked our blood. And we were watched the whole time by one of the men.
We could hear the others talking in a different room. The leader came in, murmured something to our guard and then left. We heard a car drive off and then silence.
The remaining thick-wit stared stonily at us and we stared back. Finally he ripped off the tape and gave us a drink of tepid water.
'I need the bathroom,' declared Sabrina. He freed her and as she stood, the child fell. 'I can't feel my legs,' she whimpered. 'And I'm desperate.'
'You're the nanny. You take her,' he said to me and cut through the tape binding me to the chair.
Keeping the gun trained on us, he let us stagger from the room. Our legs were numb and the movement brought painful pins and needles.
'Leave the door open,' he said at the outside loo.
'Perv,' I said.
'Shut it, bitch.'
'I can't go if he's watching me,' said Sabrina.
'Is it okay if I stand in front of her?' I asked.
'Yeah, as long as I can watch you when you take a pee.'
I gave him the finger. No way was I having a public tiddle, however desperate. But also I couldn't hike up my skirt with the gun and knife still strapped to my inner thighs. At the moment he thought I was just a nanny. I wanted and needed that element of surprise. I turned to shield Sabrina and mouthed at her to follow my lead.
'Tell him your legs really, really hurt,' I whispered.
'My legs are in agony,' said the little drama queen as she came out of the toilet and she began to cry in big gulping sobs that I knew were a total put on. This kid was not a crier. I was impressed.
'Stop blubbering,' said the thug.
Sabrina cried harder and louder.
'Perhaps if I did some exercises with her it'll help the circulation?' I said.
The First Cut Page 12
